Old Man Henry

 The Vampire Vieux Carre, (Pronounced Vamp- pire, Voo – Care- EE) 

-Best to make cocktail and sip while reading story-

Recipe:

• ¾ - Rye Whiskey (yes rye, don’t use Jim Beam or Jameson… get some rye)
• ¾ - Sweet Vermouth
• ¾- Cognac
• ½- Benedictine Liquor
• 2 Dashes- Angostura Bitters
• 2 Dashes- Peychaud’s Bitters
• Garnish with one cherry.
• Mix in glass, add ice and garnish with cherry, enjoy a real na’ leans cocktail.

 

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Old Man Henry 

It was hot and humid. 

A strong Gulf breeze blew dark clouds… promising relief. But Henry knew it wouldn’t help. He had lived in The Big Easy for a very long time, unlike most American cities, that sold-world morals, myths, and mystique that perfectly suited his temperament. 

Putting the paperback down, looking at the cover, he chuckled to himself. What does Anne Rice really know of my kind? Humans in this day and age don’t believe in such immortal creatures. They’ve lost faith in the possibilities of the supernatural world. 

After his change, Henry conducted exhaustive research. 

Scouring ancient collections for clues… perusing scholarly tomes, he searched for answers to dark questions that couldn’t be asked in daylight. Finding a few tantalizing crumbs, he followed them and his blood-line to the new-world. New Orleans. 

German documents claimed the undead lived forever; French texts suggested weakness over time. All agreed that the consumption of animal blood was less efficacious than human. Perhaps this was why he was growing weak… his powers waning. 

Alcohol, which never had any effect since the transformation, now clouded his thoughts when consumed in volume. Could he be an alcoholic? He laughed at the idea. Could he now also be affected by human diseases? He speculated that his body was just so old that it was breaking down, universal entropy and energy dissipation. Everything dies - eventually. 

Shit, the girl will be here any minute. 

**** 

“You look older.” 

It wasn’t a question; she stated the obvious. 

Henry sat in his underwear at the edge of the bed, his back to the girl. Hunched over with head in hand, black hair obscured his blood red eyes. Although he possessed the physique of a middle age man, today he felt the full weight of his true age. 

“I thought you guys were immortal. Or is that bullshit too?” 

“Perhaps. I don’t know everything about… my kind.” 

“Well, I still want to fuck you. And I expect to be paid,” she said harshly. 

Sitting in an over-stuffed chair, wearing a seductive smile and little else, her long legs were pulled up with arms covering perky, gravity defying breasts. Young flesh. Generous areola surrounded beautiful pink nipples – mouthwatering morsels begging to be sucked. 

At Henry’s insistence she wore full makeup. She thought he was weird that way. Even he would wear black eyeliner, contrasting his pale complexion and crimson irises that glowed in moonlight. 

Nobody cared, it was New Orleans. 

She was already wearing the 8-inch strap-on with the large, flared head. 

Tonight, he looked older. Felt older. And wasn’t sure he had the strength for the adventure. He could read her mind - always the same thought. Repressed hatred. He didn’t know why; that was one of the reasons he kept meeting her. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

 

They met during an adults only ghost, true crime, voodoo, and vampire walking tour of the city. A grizzly, no-holds-barred trek through the French Quarter’s underworld and cemeteries. Wearing a protective gris-gris amulet, she was the storytelling guide that fateful night. 

That was when Henry told her about himself. 

Of course, she thought he was lying, but so what. 

The city attracted a wide assortment of deranged denizens dwelling on the fringe: vampires, witches, voodoo priestesses, satanists, pirates, prostitutes, rent boys, drag queens, and murderous femme fatales, an ever-changing parade of colorful perversions. 

Henry felt an inexplicable connection, an entwined destiny. She had chutzpah. And later he discovered, much to his delight, that she fucked aggressively like a man. 

“You want a drink? It’ll relax you. And then I’ll fuck you.” 

“Yes, please. Vieux Carre.” 

Henry’s favorite cocktail, the strong sipper features rye whiskey, cognac, sweet vermouth, and Peychaud’s bitters. A classic, it’s best enjoyed at the whimsical Carousel Bar at Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street in the French Quarter. 

She didn’t know where Henry was from. He had some kind of Slavic accent, and he could be frightening at times. Did she believe all the shit about him being a gay vampire? That’s crazy, but he paid well. Very well. And she was willing to accommodate his inverted predilections. 

Venting her aggression, it would be another memorable night of fucking.

 

****

 

Henry was melancholy. 

Getting fucked by a girl wearing a strap on was okay, but in the end, it wasn’t the real thing. Not like a flesh & blood cock. Warm. Vibrant. Pulsing with life. Demanding submission. Delivering a hot load. And he fondly remembered long ago youthful trysts in Romania. 

Back then there were no diseases like AIDs, just the Black Plague. And if you knew enough about simple hygiene, had access to clean water, and were wealthy enough for unspoiled food, you had a reasonable chance to live a full life of 40 or more years. Who could ask for more? 

Modern germs were too strong for Henry. 

Like Native Americans exposed to European conquistadors carrying smallpox, mumps, and measles, decimating whole cultures, what chance did he have? Being un-dead, he was mostly immune - but was a carrier of a menagerie of microorganisms. 

Maybe he should get tested. But how would that work? 

He could envision the doctor saying, “I’m sorry to tell you sir you’ve tested positive for HIV. Oh, and of course, you’re dead. But you already knew that. Federal NSA and CDC agents have been notified, they’re on their way to help you.” Yeah, right. That’s not ever happening. 

How Henry became this…this… thing, he couldn’t recall. The transformation was a blur, like awakening from a deep sleep. Had it really been 500 years? What a strange world he now inhabited: non-binary gender fluidity, women voting and owning property. Unbelievable! 

Gay men, however, were still hunted and persecuted; some things never change. 

Still, Henry couldn’t deny his needs. 

Feeding the hunger, he would leave two barely noticeable pinpricks on blood-engorged shafts. Greedily consuming the quintessence of lifeblood and sperm, he was revitalized each time for a few days until his next nutritious, life sustaining meal. Far superior to sucking on a cow! 

It wasn’t painful for his prey, most enjoyed orgasmic euphoria. 

He didn’t have to take much blood; something he recently learned. Previously he fed until they were completely drained - killing indiscriminately. Now he knew better. Smaller, more frequent meals sustained while minimalizing harmful effects on hosts. 

Of course, his victims were transformed - an unavoidable consequence of his compassion. Some desired immortality; others not so much. Being undead isn’t always as much fun as it might seem.

 

Looking back, Henry knew he shouldn’t have done it. 

But what choice did he have? 

He hooked up with a rugged, burly bear of a man. Massive pecs, powerful thighs, and a prominent bulge that promised pain and pleasure that would make him feel alive. Anthony had a short military haircut; a marine stationed at the Naval Air Station of New Orleans on the shore of Lake Ponchartrain. 

Predator and prey perilously played at Oz, a popular gay bar on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. An hour and four drinks later they headed for Anthony’s off-base apartment in the run-down, crime infested 7th Ward near City Park and Saint Louis Cemetery #3. 

Lust eyed, Anthony sprang on Henry and aggressively pushed him down onto his knees. 

Obediently extracting the marine’s magnificent cock, he leaned forward and paid homage. Leaking juices, he eagerly extended his tongue, savoring the incredible taste and texture. Earthy. Woodsy. Like a morel mushroom sautéed in a white-wine cream sauce. 

Opening wide, ingesting the blood-swollen cap, he enjoyed the meal like a prisoner on the eve of execution. Demonstrating considerable skill acquired over centuries, Henry effortlessly took the whole shaft balls deep into his welcoming throat. 

But the marine wanted something more. 

A piece of ass. 

Retreating from the dangerous precipice of ejaculation, he lifted and repositioned Henry on his belly across a slightly soiled mattress. Rotating hips, spreading legs wide apart, opening the ass, he delved in with reckless abandon… thrusting his tongue inside Henry’s orifice. 

Henry hadn’t felt this type of passion in a long time. 

Sufficiently lubricated with spit, correcting hip alignment for deep penetration, Anthony thrust forward. Impaled on his cock, with hands on Henry’s shoulders for leverage, he brutally thrust ever deeper until the last thick military inch was fully embedded. 

Sighing in satisfaction, luxuriating in the convulsing chute, he changed angles of attack… mercilessly hammering away, widening and wrecking the ring, ripping his prey a new one. 

Unable to feel pain, Henry let the big cock have its way. 

Being submissive made him feel alive again! Good god this felt great. It had been so long. Too long. Lost in rapture, his eyes rolled back into his head and he said a small prayer in Latin under his breath, “Gratias Ago Deo propter hoc affectum.” 

“Damn, you’re a great fuck! You Bitch, I’m… I’m going to cum!” 

Anthony violently exploded. 

And Henry could feel jets of cum shoot deep inside him, painting internal tissues. 

Something was wrong, instant recognition of an implanted evil - the AIDs virus. Rational thought evaporated, eyes enlarged with rage, and supernatural strength augmented old flesh. Unleashing fury, with lightning speed Henry instinctively attacked. 

Several minutes later, licking his fingers clean, he left the room without regret. 

The marine’s broken body discarded in a pool of blood.

 

****

 

The girl walked purposefully into a deteriorating, non-descript building. 

It was hidden in plain sight in the Warehouse District. 

The broken wall-mounted directory was empty in the lobby. But she knew her destination: Suite 302. Heading for the staircase, she climbed up to the third floor. Traversing down a dark hallway she approached a heavy wooden door with faded gold lettering: ‘Kresnik Society.’ 

Resolutely, she opened the door and entered the office. 

“You don’t have to do this Fresna,” said the Director of Operations. 

She looked at him in disbelief. “This monster kills indiscriminately, terrorizes city visitors, and feeds on unsuspecting gay military personnel. He must be stopped,” sneering with hatred. “I fight to protect humanity. The Dark cannot claim what Light does not surrender.” 

Nodding in understanding, he brought out an ancient box and broke the seal. 

Inside, an ancient white-oak stake carved with voodoo glyphs and runes. 

“This weapon was enchanted a hundred years ago by Marie Laveau, New Orleans’ most powerful and revered Voodoo Queen. Imbued with supernatural energy to kill the un-dead, it must be utilized as instructed. Remember, the creature can read your mind… so don’t think, just act decisively.” 

She nodded her head, grabbed the box, and left.

 

****

 

Kresnik Society members located Henry a few nights later. 

Lafayette Cemetery No.1. Midnight. A dark moonless night. 

Established in 1833, containing dozens of large white-marble organizational society crypts, 500 wall vaults, and 1,100 Individual family above-ground graves, it’s an eerie city of the dead. Two avenues form a cruciform, dividing the cemetery into four sections. Surrounded by a 10-foot stone wall, wrought iron gates on Washington Avenue are the sole point of entry. They are religiously locked at dusk to help deter mischievous teenagers, sexual assignations, and Anne Rice enthusiasts dabbling in occult rituals. 

Like metal shavings to a magnet, practitioners of supernatural religions are inexplicably drawn to Lafayette to communicate with dark deities and ancestral spirits. 

Possessing keys, the Society had unrestrained access. 

She caught up with Henry and hid behind a tomb. Watching closely, she saw him kneel at a weathered Mayfair clan crypt. He scraped three X's, rubbed his foot against the stone, and threw some coins on a small makeshift altar. 

Distracted, he didn’t sense her presence until she approached. 

“Henry!” 

“Fresna, what are you doing here?” 

“I know how much you love Lafayette. I saw you enter and thought we could continue our fun from last week. I’ve always been attracted to the dead.” 

Henry couldn’t read her mind clearly; it seemed confused. Maybe it was the location - her repressed desire to have forbidden sex on consecrated ground, a dark fantasy begging for fruition. 

She kissed him; thrust her tongue inside raping his willing mouth. 

She pulled slightly away from him. “Do you want to?” she asked, lifting her long dress to reveal the strap on.

 

They had done it outdoors before. The change of scenery had always added a thrill to their love making. Henry had even asked her before if she would fuck him in a graveyard. Reading her mind that night, he found she was slightly disturbed but also excited by the question. 

He probed her mind again. Intense thoughts of sexual perversions focused on forceful application of the strap on. Satisfied, pulling his pants off, he took position atop a weathered 1845 family crypt: LaMaire, a man, his wife, and two children. 

She quickly mounted Henry; he could tell she felt uneasy. 

“Sorry. This place is spooky. But I can see why you love it so.” Concentrating, she pushed up into him and started rocking back and forth, progressively pushing the dildo deeper with each stroke. “I want to try fucking you the other way, from behind.” 

Henry acquiesced, turned, and assumed the submissive position. 

Acting instinctively without thought of fear or consequences, Fresna removed the protective latex sheath from the strap on. There was no time to think; barely any to breathe. Aligned, the sharpened wooden weapon rapidly approached Henry’s unsuspecting entrance. 

In a flash the image of a stake came to Henry. 

Shocked, he delayed a second, way too late to prevent Fresna from brutally ramming it up inside him, all the way to the hilt in one fluid motion. Thirteen inches pierced internal organs. Driven home, she held on for dear life as he screamed and writhed wildly. 

Supernatural incendiary flames awoke and roared with a vengeance. Blood and fire everywhere, consuming flesh and consciousness, screaming in hellish agony, Henry tried to escape, clawed futilely with every last ounce of strength. But his supernatural powers were unequal to powerful voodoo magic. No reprieve from destiny’s judgement. 

Stunned, Fresna pushed off of him, but aware enough to unbuckle the strap on, leaving harness and stake imbedded inside Henry’s charred remains.  

Deed accomplished, she ran from the cemetery.

 

****

 

Four blocks away, in a 7,609 square-foot, 1800’s white Victorian Gothic on First Street, French doors suddenly opened out onto a second-floor wrought iron balcony. Looking west towards Lafayette Cemetery, an immortal woman noticed a disturbance in the supernatural realm. 

Unnatural fire burning the un-dead. 

Such temerity, these humans, she thought. Insolent fools! How dare they infringe upon her domain. As Vampire Queen, she ruled the city of the dead for centuries. And she had plans for Henry. No matter, like her beloved Lestat, she would resurrect his spirit into a new host. 

A suitable body could easily be harvested. 

Smiling, she took another sip of fresh blood from a crystal goblet… 

… transformed and flew off into the moonless night.